


Scared

by Bitrektual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitrektual/pseuds/Bitrektual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes got scared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scared

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short drabble.

Silence haunted the flat as Sherlock sat in his chair, the fire long since died out while he stared straight ahead at John's chair. He couldn't sleep tonight for the nightmares. Couldn't sleep last night, either. Memories of the horrifying images set his hands shaking, and Sherlock slowly lifted his trembling cup of tea to take a drink. The warm liquid did little to soothe the stinging sensation in his eyes as he tried to blink back the tears.

"Idiot," Mycroft's voice rang through the empty flat, or so it seemed as though it did to Sherlock, and he closed eyes as as he placed down the tea, setting it aside. A chill drifted through and Sherlock shiver, tucking his legs up into the chair and pulling his dressing gown tighter around him. He didn't want to move to build up the fire or climb into bed, afraid that he'd see him again.

Magnussen.

Dead by Sherlock's own hand, so he knew for a fact that the man couldn't come and seek revenge. That that didn't stop him from getting it as the man haunted Sherlock's nightmares and appeared out of the corner of his eye. Even now, it was difficult to believe he'd actually done it. Sherlock had killed people before, yes. But not someone like Magnussen.

"That's why you're supposed to think, Sherlock. You never think," Mycroft's voice returned and Sherlock covered his ears, closing his eyes as he tried to think of something. Anything but the memories that danced through his brain. Panic blossomed in his chest, and he wished sorely that Mycroft was really there, to banish the monsters like when he was a child and make everything better.

There was a creak and Sherlock opened his eyes, lowering his hands and staring around the dark flat. Now he was cursing himself for not leaving the kitchen light on, at least.

"Go away!" he called out, feeling foolish as he did so. He was alone in the flat and he knew it was merely the floorboards settling, but the irrational part of his mind still fed him fear and paranoia. Lack of sleep was taking its toll on him, and he wanted to just hide under his covers. But he didn't dare move from his chair as he stared out into the darkness, waiting for morning to come and save him.


End file.
